


So he kept on running (because he didn't know who he was)

by Orlha



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 15:25:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4630347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orlha/pseuds/Orlha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky kept on running despite the endless pursue of Steve Rogers</p>
            </blockquote>





	So he kept on running (because he didn't know who he was)

_“Bucky! Bucky!”_

He wakes up to the voice calling him. He recognizes the voice. He knows the name but the name does not belong to him.

Who was he?

He stared back at the fogged up window, staring the darkened reflection of him on the window. The man that was not him stared back at him.

He was broken. Why did the man on the bridge not understand. He was broken. The things he knew, the things he knew but never knew he did. The man in the ice box, the man with the mischievous smile, the man with the soldier uniform. They were all him but they were not. How could they be him when he didn’t even know they were him.

_“Come home Bucky. It’s time to come home.”_

He heard him say hoarsely, repeating almost heartbreakingly as he walked away from the man on the bridge and friends. He could not understand why his heart clenched as he heard the desperate plead in the man’s voice.

He wasn’t ready.

He had to find out who he was.

Was he the man stuck in the ice box, was he the man who fell off the train, was he the man who saved the little man over and over again? He didn’t know. They were all dreams; all memories but none of them were him.

Who was he?

He clasped his head, dragging breaths from the cold night air. A cold hand and a warm hand. The hand that was not him.

He didn’t know when he did it. All he remembered was a cold tightened in his chest as he stared at the arm.

It all started with all the arm. It was all because of the arm.

He gasped, hanging tightly onto the man on the bridge. His fingers was bloody but he didn't remember why.

“Bucky. You’re safe. You’re home.”

He felt the warm breaths on his ears as the man on the bridge held him so tight that he was unable to move.

Home.

Where was home?

He remembered the boiling pot, the sickening smell of boiled cabbage. He remembered the girl with brown hair and eyes like liquid chocolate. He remembered her smile. Becky. He remembered the short blond man who ladled out the boiled cabbage.

_“Sorry Bucky. You know how it is. Boiled cabbage for dinner again.”_

“Steve-“ He gasped. He didn’t know why he said it, except that it felt right on his mouth.

The man on the bridge paused in his slow repeated sentences. He pushed away and with slow movements, the man on the bridge cupped his cheek with his too warm hands.  “That’s right. I’m Steve.”

The man on the bridge was too warm to be Steve, too big, too muscular. Steve was short, Steve was always cold. He remembered always making sure his coat was warm enough for him. He remembered Steve complaining about him mothering him.

“I thought you were smaller. What happened to you?”

The man on the bridge cracked a smile, sniffing his nose away, wiping the slow drip of tears. “I joined the army.”

_He was lying on the metal table, holding on his table, his ID desperately, holding onto the memory of Steve Rogers, his sister Becky. The man on bridge popped in front of him._

_“Bucky! Oh my god.”_

_The man on bridge snapped the restraints open, helping him up._

_“Is that…”_

_“It’s me. It’s Steve.”_

_“Steve?”_

_“I thought you were dead.”_

_“I thought you were smaller. What happened to you?”_

_The man on bridge pursed his lips and cracked a smile. “I joined the army.”_

The memory was not him. He was not that man. He was once the man, but he was not that the man anymore.

He broke free from the man on the bridge’s grasp. No he was not _come back_ yet.

“Bucky please.” The man on the bridge must have sensed his thoughts. “We can go to the tower, Stark can help. Remember Stark? Tony’s Howard’s kid. He’s a great guy. A bit awkward but really nice. Please Bucky. Come back.”

He turned, flinging himself out of the window, not wanting to hear the anguish in the man on the bridge’s voice.

It was raining outside. Cold, wet. Thunder flashed through the skies, the howl of the wind as it whipped around the swaying trees.

_It was raining. He watched her make her first kill. Her eyes were dilated, her breathing was wild, but she made the shot. The shot was perfect. He knew it. He taught her that. She turned to him, face pale._

_“Did I do well?”_

_He nodded. He never spoke unless he could. He didn’t know why he did but he knew he just did. The Russian on his tongue felt strange like it wasn’t made to speak Russian._

_He patted her red hair, letting her momentarily relief wash over him._

Her hair was red like fire. He never let himself forget that. 

So he ran and ran. Where was he running to? He didn’t know except that he had to keep moving. The man on the bridge followed him, never giving up. Town to town, city to city, always pursuing him; calling him over and over again, even as he walked away from them.

Stubborn punk.

Words he didn’t know he knew floated into his mind.

Tired.

He was tired of running, tired of remembering. The blood on his hands, the weight of the gun as he emptied it into the man’s chest. He was tired of being the Asset, he was tired of trying to fit into being Bucky again. Bucky was a mischievous, charismatic but innocent man. Bucky never killed unless he knew the man deserved it, never shot a man in cold bloody unless it was to protect something, whether it was a nation, a man, a city. He was not Bucky. He could never be Bucky again.

He stared at the lake. The calm sound of the waves lapping onto the rocky bed lulled him to a serenity he didn’t know was possible.

“Bucky! Bucky!” The man on the bridge was crying. “Please. I need you.”

Why didn’t the man on the bridge let him go? He was tired. Too tired. He coughed the water from his lungs, letting the man on the bridge squeeze the air out of him.

“Don’t ever try to kill yourself again!”

The girl with hair like fire was standing behind him.

“Солдат , очистить свой гроссбух , прежде чем вы можете отдохнут.” She said.

He could do that. Clean his ledger before he was allowed to rest. He could do that.

“James. Call me James.”

 

* * *

  

Translations were taken from Google translate and you know how they are.

Солдат , очистить свой гроссбух , прежде чем вы можете отдохнут – Soldier clean your ledger before you can rest.

 

 


End file.
